


Beautiful (like diamonds in the sky)

by kuiske, Lidoshka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Melkor PoV and he’s not a nice person, Mild canon divergence, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidoshka/pseuds/Lidoshka
Summary: The Silmarils are not enough.Wanting to outshine the stars, Melkor starts to wear diamonds in his hair.A cloud of diamonds danced in the air around the King of the World as he returned to his throne, all doubts forgotten...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018 collaboration fic, inspired by the art by [Lidoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidoshka/pseuds/Lidoshka). All art in this story, the banner included, belongs to her.
> 
> The artwork is embedded in this story.  
> It can also be found [here on tumblr](http://lidoshka.tumblr.com/post/177744831070/art-for-the-story-beautiful-like-diamonds-in-the) and [here](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/just-like-stars-762623092) and [here](https://www.deviantart.com/greenapplefreak/art/sparkles-762623054) on Deviant Art.  
>    
> The title is from Diamonds by Rihanna.

 

The Void hadn’t changed. It _could_ not change, but it felt curiously darker and more empty than it had before the Beginning.

Perhaps it made sense.

The birth of time almost had to alter one’s perception of timelessness, although the Void had been there first and would remain after, when all that now Was ceased to Be.

Melkor smiled.

He had been cast out of the World for three whole Ages by his cursed brethren who wanted to usurp his lordship over Arda, but this was not as severe a punishment for him as they must have intended. He had wandered in the Void, alone, searching for the Everlasting Flame back when all the others had flocked to Ilúvatar like so many moths to the Lamps. He was more familiar with it than anyone among the Ainur.

Nothingness didn't frighten him. How could it, when he was destined to rule over everything that Is, and he alone was the Lord of Darkness as well!

He just had to wait.

And think.

He had three _Ages_ to think for an appropriate revenge.

Aulë would be allowed to serve. Suitably humbled and bound with his own unbreakable chains he would make a passable servant, perhaps even a vassal in time. Lord of Everything had a need for craftsmen, and it would be a shame to waste the finest one, when he could as well be put to work re-shaping the world into Melkor’s image.

Nienna, too, had a purpose. She would weep him free from his prison when they brought him back to be judged again; it was her mercy that would sway the others. She would be of little use afterwards – her compassion made her weak and predictable – but let it not be said that Melkor didn’t reward those who helped him. Nienna would live to see whether her tears could refill the oceans after Melkor’s frosts had frozen them solid in the north and his fires boiled them empty of water and Ulmo’s spirit alike everywhere else.

Small purpose, but it was better than none, and there were precious few Valar who’d be of any use at all.

Manwë would be the first one to go. The lofty fool who dared call himself the King of Arda, even though Melkor far surpassed him in both might and lordliness, let him see spears and arrows bring down his pestilential birds and know what fate awaited him. Afterwards he’d be watching nothing, _nothing_ forever and ever after.

Out, out of the World into the Eternal Darkness, through the same door they had banished Melkor, and good riddance too.

Most of the others would follow after, except for Tulkas. Him Melkor would find a way to feed to Sauron’s wolves, and all the better if it took time. He deserved to be devoured for an eternity before he was finally consumed, and Melkor was certain that Sauron would take pleasure in teaching the laughing ape how to scream instead.

And Námo.

Melkor decided there and then that he would keep _the Doomsman_ as well, bound and gagged and chained at the foot of his throne for all Ages of the world, so that everyone who came to pay homage to their King would see what fate befell those who presumed to judge their betters.

It would serve him right.

As for the firstborn of Ilúvatar who’d brought this exile on him, they could flee to Aman down to the last one for all he cared. Valinor, too, would darken and fall at the hour of his triumph and the elves would then bend their knees and succumb to his will. Or _be bent_ by his will, if they proved as stubborn as some he’d encountered. It made no difference to him. Whether as themselves or as orcs, they would enter his service all the same.

(The mysterious yet-to-arrive secondborn should be easier to cow. They’d be born into his rule and know no other Master. From waterless shore to shore, all the lands would belong to him.)

Above all the lands though…

Wholly against his will, that troubled him.

Above Arda, far, far outside Melkor’s power shone Varda’s stars. They mocked him with their mere existence, with all that hard and cold and eternal light. He cursed them for being out of his reach, and he cursed Varda twice over for putting them where he couldn’t seize them. He would have to obscure them with a blanket of smoke and clouds that spread across the sky, so that eventually no one living would ever bother to glance upwards again. Varda and her pathetic flecks of light would fade from relevance and remembrance and Melkor would be victorious!

Regardless, if he couldn’t own the stars, he swore that he’d find a way to destroy them, just like he’d destroyed the Lamps.

In fact, he would force _her_ to do it.

Let the Kindler reach out and put out her stars before being cast into the Darkness forever!

It was decided, that’s what he would do!

And yet…

And yet Melkor sometimes felt as if Varda’s spirit had pursued him even here.

The Void was impenetrable darkness where no light could survive, but still he felt like he could almost see her right there, crowned with the Valacirca like a declaration of war. In her unwavering gaze there was something that had always reminded him of Ilúvatar and the gnawing doubt and fear he’d fought so hard to suppress. And in her hair shone a million, million stars like bright diamonds in the sky.


	2. Part I

All the blind fools had long since left to fawn at Manwë’s feet when Melkor stepped out of his own darkness with the Spider he had brought to execute his will. 

Yavanna’s Trees were shining hot and bright as always, utterly unaware that their doom was now at hand. He lifted his spear and drove it deep into the Silver Tree. If Telperion shuddered and recoiled, it still couldn’t run, and neither could Laurelin. They stood wounded and helpless as Ungoliant leapt to her task. Heedless of the scorching heat she gorged herself on Laurelin before moving on to Telperion, and then back again as if to make sure that neither of her prey could escape while she fed on the other. 

Ungoliant grew bigger and bigger as the trees grew dimmer, until finally they shuddered and died, and the Light of the World went out.

Melkor laughed in triumph. He stretched out to lay a thick veil of shadow all over Aman to obscure the stars, which had been made visible by the sudden lack of the greater light, and then the darkness was absolute. 

Melkor’s victory was absolute.

“Blackheart, I hunger still,” Ungoliant said and turned towards him, clicking her jaws expectantly.

“You shall have more when we reach Arda again,” Melkor said, irritated that she had interrupted his moment of glory. “But we must make a stop along the way. There’s an arrogant elf in Formenos who has something of mine I won’t leave without.”

“Good. ‘With both hands’ you promised me. It will not do for you to have your hands empty when the time comes.”

Melkor bristled at the insolence but said nothing. Ungoliant would get what was coming for her later, but for now she was still of use and there were more important matters at hand.

“Come,” he said curtly and sprang into run, never caring whether the Spider was fast enough to follow.

*

Formenos was shining like a beacon in the night, its lights unaffected by the death of the Trees. More importantly, the banner of the house of Finwë was flown from the highest tower, proclaiming the castle not empty of the Noldorin royalty. 

Melkor felt a sudden surge of victorious joy at the sight. 

Apparently, not _all_ the blind fools had gone to Taniquetil.

Fëanor had stayed home.

Remembering his former humiliation Melkor stopped in front of the gate and cried:

“Do you deny me entrance still, son of Finwë? Do you wish to be slain like a dog at your own door or have you scraped up enough good sense to kneel before me and beg for your worthless life?”

“I am not my son and he is not here,“ Finwë said, stepping out into the light. “But I deny you still.”

Ah. 

It seemed that Fëanor would live past today, after all. Melkor didn’t have it in him to feel overly disappointed. 

This would do _very_ well indeed.

“As you wish,” Melkor said with a smile.

*

The glacier all around him breathed out freezing cold, but Melkor’s hand was on fire, his whole _arm_ was on fire. 

He had once watched Gothmog lay a bare hand on a prisoner, and it occurred to him that to an elf, a Balrog’s touch must have felt something like this.

Melkor wasn’t screaming though. 

Nor did his skin crackle and turn into an angry mass of red that spread forth from the white-hot point of contact. His flesh certainly didn’t char and slouch off his bones fully cooked as he _screamed_ for a surprisingly long time, actually, before the heat reached his insides and silenced him for good.

No, that would’ve been terribly embarrassing, so he didn’t allow it.

Melkor did, however, press his closed fist against a jagged spire of ice that stood taller than many houses.

It had no effect whatsoever.

The pain in his hand wasn’t alleviated or numbed in the slightest. He wasn’t particularly surprised about that, since a mere block of ice could hardly be expected to defeat anything that was capable of hurting him. But the ice wasn’t affected either, even though by all reason it should be rapidly melting into a puddle right now.

Curious.

Melkor risked opening his hand just a little, so that the smallest possible part of a Silmaril touched the ice directly.

Still nothing. 

The Silmarils clearly weren’t like the Trees in this aspect; they gave out light but not heat. The fire that burned him wasn’t fire at all, but some sort of illusion that was far, _far_ beyond anything Fëanor could’ve managed, now or ever, not even if he hadn’t turned down Melkor’s generous offer of an apprenticeship. 

A terrible suspicion stirred inside him and he reached towards the Silmarils with his mind. And sure enough, he was met with a whisper of Varda’s thought lingering on the jewels.

Murderous fury rose inside him and drowned out the pain in his hand. He howled and lashed out in rage. Fresh ravines cracked into the glacier under the force of his blows, and the spire of ice next to him came crashing down.

How dare she curse his rightful possessions? How dare she even touch them?!

_How dare she!!!_

*

When they came to the shores of a great lake in the Middle-Earth, Melkor judged that they were now far enough that no one in Aman would be able or willing to give pursuit. He was ready to bid a very fast farewell to the Spider, but she must have sensed his haste, because she turned to him, hunger and malice oozing out of her like toxic pus out of a rotten wound.

“I hunger still,” Ungoliant hissed, a threat creeping into her voice. “You gave me your word, Blackheart. Until I’ve had my fill, with both of your hands you’ll feed me.”

Back in Formenos Melkor had still been willing to sacrifice the lesser jewels he had taken from Fëanor’s vault, but now he found that he didn’t want to give them away, least of all to this bloated creature who dared make demands of him. He dearly wished he’d done as he’d originally intended and left Ungoliant behind in Valinor. If only the Spider hadn’t been such a coward, she could’ve used the cover of darkness and the panicky chaos to feed on Eldar and Ainur alike for _days_ before she was discovered. Now she'd been forced to try and sate her hunger with Fëanor’s furniture after being denied Finwë’s corpse. And more importantly, she still trailed after Melkor expecting him to feed her.

He considered telling her that she’d had more than her share and then sending her on her way, but he thought better of it. Instead he looked down on her and said:

“I promised you that, after the light of the Trees is dead.”

“The Trees are dead. You saw them die.”

“But their light yet lives. Look up.”

Melkor pushed aside the shadow he had used to hide them from view on their way back and allowed the stars to shine upon them.

“The light of the Silver Tree was used to make those,” Melkor said and pointed towards the brightest constellations. “They are bigger than they look like from down here. The biggest is the size of that lake, and all of them are full to the brim of Tree-light. _You_ gave me _your_ word that you would consume all of that before you came asking for scraps from my hand.”

“ _Hands_ ,” Ungoliant corrected him and clicked her jaws suspiciously. “How would I even get up there?”

“The same way you got to Valinor,” Melkor replied pleasantly. “With my help.”

He reached out to the utmost North where he had buried the cause of eternal frost all those ages ago, and pulled the cold to himself. Then he reached out to the lake.

Slowly, a steep staircase made of ice started to form and climb towards the heavens at his command.

Ungoliant nudged the staircase, lightly at first to see whether it would break or fall. When nothing happened, she jostled it hard enough to knock down a tower made of stone, but Melkor’s will held the stairs steady and intact.

“How much light did you say was up there?” Ungoliant asked, her doubts and resolve wavering at the prospects of such a feast.

“More than you can eat,” Melkor promised.

“I can always eat more,” she replied with a promise of her own. 

Then she started to climb. Slowly, slowly at first, and testing the steps, then faster, and faster still. Before long she was racing up the stairs like greed made flesh, higher up than anything that lived without wings.

The lake ran out of water shortly after Ungoliant had passed the thin wisps of natural clouds that rode level with the mountain tops. She was a mere speck of deeper black against the black sky, but her voice still carried down with ease, telling Melkor to lift her up higher.

“Actually,” Melkor said. “I’d say you’re just about high enough.”

Then he let go of the staircase and kicked it sharply. 

The base broke. 

The stairs swayed. 

A web of thin hairline cracks ran skywards from the point of impact until it became too much. With a creak and a chime like bells the staircase finally shattered into a million billion gleaming shards and Ungoliant came crashing down, screaming all the way.

When her enormous body hit the ground at last the Earth quaked, the mountains trembled, and dirt sprayed forth from the massive crater almost the size of the now empty lake.

Melkor laughed, delighted. Though nothing could surpass the elation of seizing the treasures which Fëanor had sought to deny him, the Spider’s well-deserved demise felt just as good as squeezing the life out of Finwë and leaving his carcass on the doorstep for his arrogant whelp to find. He briefly considered checking whether anything of value could be found in Ungoliant’s remains, but he discarded the idea almost immediately. His hands were full of treasure, and it was unlikely that the Spider had swallowed anything worth shifting through her insides for. 

Melkor shrugged Ungoliant out of his mind. He spared a final glance at the West and spat in contempt before turning towards the North. He had armies to prepare and a fortress to raise, and he needed a crown as well, worthy of the King of the World. It occurred to him that it was good that the Silmarils weren’t actually as hot as they felt in his hand. Having to constantly forbid his crown from melting would’ve surely proven tiresome fairly soon.

The crown should be iron, he decided then. Using gold or silver would be pointless, since they could never hope to match his jewels in beauty or value. But iron, which ran red before settling down to black… Iron for Angband that still endured, unconquered, with the Silmarils set to it to proclaim his majesty and lordship, which no one could now doubt or deny… 

Yes, that would do nicely.

Melkor was still contemplating on his crown when Ungoliant burst out of the crater, alive and screeching with unholy fury. She toppled him over before he knew what was happening and then she sank her jaws into his side.

Melkor screamed.

The scorching pain his hand that still clutched the Silmarils all but forgotten, Melkor trashed and screamed and his agonized cries carried to all ends of the earth.

The lesser diamonds went flying out of his hand and out of his mind. He tried to use his now-free hand to ward her off, to no avail. She should’ve let go! The blows he landed on her would’ve levelled mountains, but Ungoliant didn't care; she bit in deeper and Melkor _screamed_.

And screamed.

And screamed.

And a fiery lash wrapped itself around Ungoliant’s body and yanked her back. Then another, and another still, until she was forced to let go. Melkor scrambled to his feet and watched as she turned on his Balrogs instead, insane with rage, but there were too many of them even for her. Blows rained on her from every direction, whips rent her flesh, and when she caught one of the Balrogs and began to devour him, he managed to rip out one of her eyes before he was consumed.

That must have been the final straw for her. Ungoliant tore herself free from her restraints and fled south, shrieking out terrible curses all the way. The Balrogs roared, and a tempest of dark flames burst out from the cracks in their skin as they leapt into pursuit, baying for her blood.

“Captain.”

One word from Melkor cut through the Balrogs’ bloodlust and stilled them all on the spot. Gothmog turned towards him and bowed deep, the others knelt on the battle-ravaged ground.

“My Lord.”

“The Spider is not of consequence,” Melkor said coolly. “There is work to be done in Angband. The fortress must be made ready to withstand assault.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gothmog replied. “The lowest levels weren’t damaged in the war. They remain secure and wait for you.”

“Good.”

Melkor’s gaze fell on the ground, dotted with the remnants of the staircase that had failed to slay Ungoliant. The shards of ice gleamed weakly in the starlight, but it seemed to him that there were brighter spots among them as well. 

He waited and watched as the ice melted away, leaving behind thousands of diamonds twinkling on the blackened ground like a mirror image of the sky, right there within his grasp. 

“I shall have a need of those, Captain,” Melkor said to Gothmog, nodding towards the diamonds.

“At once, my Lord.”


	3. Intermission

As soon as the news started to come in, whatever worry Melkor had felt over the great host of the Noldor decimating his armies disappeared so fast it might as well never have existed.

He’d laughed for days after hearing how the Noldor had used their swords to carve a bloody path out of Aman right through their kin, but that was _nothing_ compared to the news his spies brought to him now.

Fëanor was dead and the Noldor were Doomed.

Melkor could scarcely believe it at first, but his spies had carried the wind that still bore the words to him, so that he could hear them with his own ears.

_Their Oath shall drive them,_  
_and yet betray them,_  
_and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue._

_To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well;  
and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass._

 

Fëanor had crossed the sea with an army to do war on Melkor and steal the Silmarils from him, and the Lords of the West had gathered all their might and wisdom and _cursed them all to fail_. Never in all his years had Melkor laughed so hard, never come so close to reaching out to Valinor and sincerely thanking his hated brethren for this great gift they had given him.

Melkor hoped that Fëanáro had enjoyed contending with _real_ Spirits of Fire.

While he languished in the Halls of Mandos, Melkor had plans to make regarding his children.

*

The Sun and the Moon were born out of the death of the Trees.

The Daystar rose and woke the secondborn of Ilúvatar, as if it had always been intended.

But it _couldn’t_ have been.

 

(Melkor did not think of Ilúvatar. He did _not_ think of the words spoken before the Beginning:

_And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played_  
_that hath not its uttermost source in me,_  
_nor can any alter the music in my despite._

_For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument  
in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined._

 

He might have felt doubt or concern, if he had thought of Ilúvatar, but he didn’t think of him.

He. Did. Not.)

*

Melkor retreated to the lowest levels of Angband where the sunlight could never hope to reach. There he scooped up a fistful a diamonds, meaning to weave them into his hair, but such anger still coursed through him that he crushed them into powder in his fist instead. His rage surged into a roaring crescendo and his body swelled up with it; his clothes ripped and even his crown fell from his head. Angband shook as the force of his fury rushed through it. Everyone from the lowest slave to the highest Captain fell silent and trembled in fear of his temper.

Although actually, he rather liked the look of the glittering dust in his hands.

Melkor picked up his crown and put it on the table so that he could view his hands in the light of the Silmarils. He was not disappointed. His skin sparkled with the light like the arctic frost, only infinitely more precious. He grabbed another fistful of diamonds and crushed them too, this time on purpose. He spread the dust all over himself and watched his skin come alive with tiny, tiny specks of diamonds, each giving out light to a slightly different direction.

It looked exquisite.

No other being in Arda could hope to achieve such majesty.

Melkor set his crown back on his head and blew the excess dust off his hands. A cloud of diamonds danced in the air around the King of the World as he returned to his throne, all doubts forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes in italics are from the Silmarillion (1999 paperback edition), p. 94-95 (Of the Flight of the Noldor) and p. 5-6 (Ainulindalë).


	4. Part II

Angband was technically under siege and heavily guarded day and night by whole armies and a string of fortresses, but seated on his throne deep underground, Melkor found it hard to care. He could have commanded his armies to break the siege any time – if anything, his Captains had trouble reining in his troops and especially his dragon – but he was loathe to march into war until his armies were fully formed and ready. He had time to spare, and Glaurung was still in his adolescence. It had taken Melkor too many tries to create a dragon that survived past infancy, he wouldn’t let Glaurung go to waste just because he grew bored of eating nothing but slaves.

Perhaps he should let him chase his dinner around a little, well hidden in the deepest dungeons of course. It might stop all the snapping and complaining, and besides, it’d be good practise for the future. Glaurung would spend a great deal of his adult life hunting down elves and men, after all.

Melkor laughed at the idea and shook his head a little, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that shot through his skull. The heavy weight of agony was ever-present unless he removed his crown, which he did extremely rarely, and never because of the pain. He would not yield to Varda’s tricks like that. And besides, whether he wore his crown or not, there was no alleviating the pain in his hands. Melkor preferred not to think about any of it, and concentrated instead on watching the diamonds in his hair glitter as the light from his crown got caught up in them.

Mirrors in the throne room had been a brilliant idea.

His hair moved again, this time without his input, and a cloud of smaller diamonds that framed his head and upper body shifted and sparkled. Melkor was pleased. A lesser Maia of Manwë with more wisdom than power had denounced the Usurper and joined the true King instead. The Maia barely even deserved to be called that; he was a faint and nameless wind-spirit, too weak for a physical form, but Melkor had decided to grant him the great honour of being allowed to support his diamond halo wherever he went. It was a reward beyond price to be allowed in his presence at all times, especially for someone that insignificant, but as the King of the World Melkor had decided to be generous.

All the world was welcome to prostrate themselves before him.

All the world would be allowed to serve.

*

Fingolfin’s challenge rang loud and clear from the gates and Melkor burned with rage.

Was it not enough that he’d been forced to endure Fëanor?

Was it not enough that Fingon had stolen away his prisoner?

Was it not enough that Maedhros, maimed and scarred and broken, hadn’t even had the good grace to crawl somewhere out of sight to end his own miserable life?

Was there _no end_ to this _insolence!_

Fingolfin’s horn sounded again and his challenge was laden with insults as he called for Melkor to come out and face him.

“Shall I send my wolves to silence him, my Lord?” Sauron asked.

His whole being was a picture of courtesy. Only a hint of bared teeth revealed how much pleasure Sauron would’ve found in executing that particular command.

“No,” Melkor said, although the prospect of a pack of werewolves tearing Fingolfin to shreds appealed to him as well. “The High King of the Noldor has requested the honour of being slain by my hand. I shall grant him his wish. I trust you have my armour ready.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Melkor followed Sauron to his personal treasury and shrugged off the heavy cloak he’d worn for centuries. He had commanded Sauron to forge him a new armour some time ago, but he had never worn or even seen it. There had never been a need.

Technically he supposed there still wasn’t, but some insults could not be left unanswered.

Even without the threat of his Lord’s displeasure, Sauron was not the type to craft anything that didn’t meet his own very exacting standards, and he didn’t disappoint this time either. Melkor allowed himself to be dressed in a magnificent suit of armour; a mail hauberk followed by an ornate breastplate, pauldrons and vambraces, all deep black and set with priceless gems befitting his station as the King of the World. The challenge rang from the gates again, but it no longer irritated Melkor. He commanded such awe and terror that even the mountains trembled in his presence, and in a few moments he would go outside to crush the insect that sought to compel him in the name of the Star-Kindler. As if the starry skies held any power over him anymore. As if they’d ever had.

The night had belonged to Melkor since before the Beginning. He'd been touched by the Void itself and it hung about him still; he wore the vast nothingness wrapped around himself like a cloak. His hair billowed in the light breeze like silk threaded through with a thousand diamonds, and a thousand more shifted in the air all around him, forever in motion. Each one of them put Varda's gems to shame by their existence alone, and they all were as gravel compared to the Silmarils which he bore in his crown.

How could the stars ever hope to compare!

Fingolfin's final challenge echoed in the mountains and Melkor swung his war hammer to his shoulder with a smile.

The elf was eager to die.

 

 

*

Fingolfin’s blade grazed Melkor’s thigh and his cry of anguish turned into an enraged howl as he retaliated with a horrifying strike of his hammer. That should’ve been lethal, but no. The force of the blow knocked Fingolfin to his knees and the star-crystal decorations on his shield went flying, crushed, but the shield itself held.

For now.

“Yield!” Fingolfin commanded, his voice still steady although exhaustion was beginning to weigh him down and he stumbled and almost fell again. “Yield and surrender to the justice of the Free People of the World, so that you can be tried and sentenced for your crimes!”

Melkor lashed out in fury at the insult. Grond tore up the ground where it struck, narrowly missing Fingolfin’s head.

“Fool! Your _free peoples_ live out of my mercy alone, and you think to bring me to your perverted justice? As if anyone could! I _am_ justice!”

“You’re a liar and a thief! As the Lords of the West have judged you, so shall we!”

Melkor laughed.

“Yes, you _would_ be familiar with the _justice_ of the Valar!” he mocked. “Sentenced and exiled for Fëanor’s crimes! Your children’s children born cursed and their children also, and _their_ children unto the end of Arda! _You_ yield to _me_ , and beg for forgiveness for your crimes, and I shall see them released!”

“Liar!” Fingolfin cried. His next stroke bit through the mail in Melkor’s flank.

“A liar, am I?" Melkor hissed. "Are you then _not_ Doomed into exile? Does the Doom not extend to all your kin, even those yet unborn?”

Fingolfin didn’t answer to that, he _couldn’t_ answer, so he leapt forward with his sword held high and drew blood again, a tiny scrape at the side of Melkor’s neck that burned like ice.

“You name me a liar for speaking the truth you refuse to hear!” Melkor's next blow drove Fingolfin to his knees again. “But you are a worthy foe, son of Finwë, much more so than your deranged half-brother. Why do you think I permit you to wound me before I slay you? Yield now, and I shall spare you!”

Fingolfin’s only reply was a deadly thrust aimed at Melkor’s left flank. He tripped over the uneven ground and almost fell, missing his target by a mile.

Melkor laughed in his face and decided stop toying with him.

A well-aimed strike with the Grond shattered Fingolfin’s shield as if it were made of glass. The second one snapped his sword in half. The third blow caught Fingolfin in the chest and sent him flying. His body crashed upon rocks and although he was still holding what was left of his sword, he couldn’t stand up again fast enough. Melkor’s boot on his chest pinned him down for good.

“Does the Doom of Mandos not proclaim that you shall not triumph against me?” Melkor asked, mocking his defeated enemy. “If you truly submit to their ruling… If you truly are foolish enough to believe them greater than me… then _this_ is the justice of the Valar. Perhaps you should take care with how much you struggle, lest you find yourself cast out twice.”

Fingolfin breathed deep as if steadying himself, and to Melkor’s everlasting glee, he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Hear me now, so that you'll depart from this life without your ridiculous delusions," Melkor spoke to him in contempt. "The pale shades cowering in the far West in their fear of me do not play into this. You can cling to them like stench to a mangy cur; it matters not in the slightest. Let there be no doubt in you mind: you will die for raising a hand against me, and all your kin shall follow you into the oblivion.”

Melkor pressed down with his foot and Fingolfin’s breastplate caved in. He cried out as his ribs broke like so many twigs and were driven into his lungs, and he choked and coughed and gagged, bringing up blood. A wild joy filled Melkor and he laughed. This is how Finwë had died as well, before the gates of Formenos all those years ago. He had suffocated in his own blood as Melkor’s boot squeezed the life out of his body.

Melkor brought his face closer to Fingolfin’s, and as he had once spoken to the father, he now spoke to the son:

“There would’ve been easier ways, o’ Elvenking, if you _so_ badly wished to die.”

With a final burst of defiant strength Fingolfin thrust upwards with his broken sword. Melkor screamed in pain and outrage as the blade pierced his cheek and went through into his mouth, towards the inside of his throat. He shrieked and jumped back and Fingolfin rolled over, snarling and spitting up blood as he stabbed his sword right through Melkor’s foot, wrenched it out and stabbed him again. Still crying out in agony and rage, Melkor brought his injured foot down on Fingolfin’s neck.

Blood pooled in Melkor’s mouth and ran down his chin as he limped a step backwards from his enemy’s corpse, still shaking from what had almost come to pass.

No.

That wasn’t right.

Melkor’s hands never shook as he regarded his handiwork. As soon as he found the time, he would command the torn bones and tendons in his foot to knit themselves together and his wounds to cease their bleeding. For now, such trivial things could wait.

All that mattered right now was this: Once again, the High King of the Noldor was nothing more than a bloody stain on his boot.


	5. Epilogue

Time ceased to have meaning as their path took them down, down through the dark and twisting corridors of Morgoth’s fortress. Lúthien committed their road to memory, although there was every chance that they wouldn't return. But forsaking hope now would be more perilous than any blade or a twisted beast.

Once more around the corner, and suddenly the Nethermost Hall opened before them, huge and full of horrors, and on his throne of stone waited the dark, hulking figure of Morgoth Bauglir. Lúthien stared, even against her will. She had known of the Silmarils set in his high crown, but not of the diamonds dotting his hair. The dread Enemy of the World was crusted with fine diamond dust, from his black and charred hands to his torn face and mangled foot. Twinkling jewels danced in the air around him.

Morgoth must have felt her watching. He opened his eyes and turned his will towards her, and her disguise was torn to shreds in an instant under the full force of his malice. As herself she stepped in front of the throne and met his eyes, undaunted, although his gaze sunk vile hooks right into her soul and froze her where she stood.

“I am Lúthien, called Tinúviel, the daughter and heir of King Thingol and Queen Melian of Doriath,“ she said. “I have travelled far and wide, and now I have come to sing to you, should you be willing to hear me.”

Morgoth’s laughter was like the torture implements on his walls; jagged, cruel and full of every evil intention in the world, but Lúthien was grateful for it. With the full might of his will no longer turned to her, she could slip out of his sight. She spared the briefest glance at Beren before turning her attention back to Morgoth.

Lúthien steeled her resolve, and in a Hell beneath the earth, the Nightingale began to sing.


End file.
